


You're Not Here

by Boyue



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Silent Hill Fusion, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boyue/pseuds/Boyue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reoccurring nightmares about a dead friend brings Stan Marsh back to his hometown of South Park to find closure. The only thing Stan ends up finding, though, is that the town has been swallowed up by something ancient and sinister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not Here

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Silent Hill series. Some things are direct rip-off. Some things are allusion. Some just plain don't make sense.

Cartmanland had seen better days. The grated floor was sick with grime and rust and creaked through the theme park from each step Stan took. The air was hazy and smelled heavily like something burnt. Each breath barely filled his lungs with enough oxygen that he had to draw in another breath through parted lips to compensate. There was no light beyond a few dim glows that seemed to hang in mid-air without any support. He thought of using his phone as a flashlight. When he moved his hand, however, he felt the cold handle of a switchblade in his palm instead of an electronic device. 

Where the fuck did he get a switchblade and what was he supposed to do with it?

With no new mean of light, he continued onward, not knowing where to go, only that he couldn’t bare to stand here for another second. To his left, there was a tall metal cage with something dangling inside he couldn’t make out. Quite frankly, he didn’t care to find out exactly what that humanoid-shaped object was and moved on as steadily as possible. He passed by a wooden bench and paused at the mascot with the bloodied face slumping lifelessly. Sexual Harassment Panda, he recalled; though there was no logical reason how the panda became the mascot of Cartmanland. Or more importantly, why its face was torn up like it was in a losing fight. He did hope that the man who played the mascot was all right and the trickle of fluid leaking out from the panda’s nose was only his eyes playing tricks on him.

Pushing forward led him to the street of souvenir stores, all of which had their windows and doors protected by rolling gates wearing the same coat of rust as everything else in the park. The smell of fire hadn’t dwindled either; if anything, it was gradually overwhelming his nose along with the stench of something else he couldn’t put his finger on yet. Each side of the street was lined by lampposts that lit up the path he supposed he would have to follow. His fingers unwittingly curled tighter around the switchblade as he strolled past a store window that wasn’t shrouded. It was far too dark to tell if anything inside the store was worth his investigation. He could hardly make out his own reflection on the glass even as he squinted like that would help.

The only thing he could see was the outline of his silhouette along with that of someone else behind him. He spun around, his hand already up with the blade pointing out in offense. There was no one there. Of course there was no one there. There was only silence and his paranoia mocking him. 

He took a breath to steel his heart but kept the switchblade close to his chest. He picked up his pace and sped down the street, not taking his eyes off the path before him and ignoring the tiny, muffled noises in the far distance that was starting to fill the park. The road directed him to a vast, empty space with nothing but an offline merry-go-round sitting in the middle. A chain-linked fence circled the ride and that was all there to it. A dead-end. He went the wrong way.

Before he could turn back and figure if he’d missed a hidden path elsewhere, the ride sprung to life. The bulbs mounted on the merry-go-round did little to brighten up the space. As the ride crawled slowly in its track, the calliope music dragged along and distorted what should’ve been a cheery tune. Each animal was wrapped in pus-soaked bandages that oozed a black substance as the poles pulled them up then lowered them down out of sync. Their heads twitched uncomfortably like they were struggling to break free from their post.

The black ooze dripped down the animals then slithered in tendrils toward him. He could’ve run. He should’ve run. He would’ve run, if it wasn’t for the small boy standing in between what looked like a reindeer and a donkey. Even in the low light, the orange parka was unmistakable. It helped a lot for him to see when a spark materialized from nowhere and set the boy aflame. Slowly, then all at once, the fire swallowed the boy whole.

When he did make up his mind to run as he watched the burning figure stalked toward him, the tendrils had long bound around his legs and immobilized him. The more he fought against his prison, the faster the tendrils spread over him. He twisted his wrist and tried to slash down at the tendrils, but they weren’t as much crawling on him as they were becoming part of him. He could feel them twining over his body, seeping into his pores like they were his new skin.

The boy, his face charred beyond recognition, closed in toward him with outstretched arms. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought to expect a hug. He thrashed against the tendrils grappling him. He swung his leg and punched his arm forward; neither motion did anything to help and only drained his energy as the tendrils glided up his neck and enveloped his face. It was a mistake opening his mouth to scream. Not a sound came out before the tendrils swarmed in and filed down his throat. He gagged to expel the foreign invasion to no avail. The boy wrapped his arms around him; it almost did feel like a hug if it weren’t for the fire that leapt on and began to devour him too.

He screamed as he burnt, the taste of ashes and flesh on his tongue. Even if he couldn’t make it audible, he screamed and screamed and drowned out the boy muttering of his name over and over.


End file.
